Read Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) for Free Online

like she was on alert. There was something not quite right about the poses they presented; on the other hand, he knew grief did strange things to people.
    It didn't matter. He had no particular sympathy for their grief, and a flush of annoyance brought a sour taste to his mouth. These people and their privilege. With fortunes built on the sweating backs of generations of poor folk, they passed their lives untouched by the dirty world outside and its dangers. They broke rules and never paid a price. He knew for a fact that among their number were those who had gotten away with murder. Now one of theirs had died, they were desperate for help, and he had been called.
    With a solemn sigh, Delouche said, "Well, then. Shall we begin?"
    The daughter, who had been regarding their visitor with her steady eyes, said, "Thank you for coming, Mr. St. Cyr." She spoke the name with a Parisian lilt, barely moving her mouth as she softened each letter.
    "Yes, ma'am," Valentin said, keeping his voice flat.
    Mrs. Benedict raised eyes that were as glassy as a doll's and said, "We want to find out what happened to my husband." She had tried for a note of command, but her voice warbled. "I hope you can help us."

    Valentin took his hands off the arms of the chair and made a steeple before his chest. "My understanding is that your husband was alone in a dangerous part of the city," he stated directly. "He ran up on some criminal and it cost him his life."
    Mrs. Benedict's gaze skipped to the attorney and then back to him, her lip beginning to quiver. "But he wasn't ... he had no reason to be in that ... that
place.
"
    "And yet he was," Valentin said briskly. "He could have been killed elsewhere and his body moved there, but I doubt it."
    Both women winced and the attorney let out an angry hiss of breath. A pronounced silence followed. Mrs. Benedict held his eyes, then looked away. The daughter continued to gaze at him fixedly, and now seemed to be biting her lip.
    Valentin gave their stares right back to them. "It would help to know what he was after on Rampart Street in the dead of night."
    It came out cool and insinuating, the same tone of voice he used when he grilled suspects. The small spots of color on the widow's cheeks faded to a dead white, even as the daughter's eyes flashed hotly. It was if they were noticing him in their midst for the first time. He shifted his blank gaze to some point in space.
    Mrs. Benedict held herself together for another moment, then began to sob quietly, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Anne Marie put a protective arm around her mother's shoulders and glared at Valentin, her face taut and lips tight with anger. He refused to engage her, so she turned to Delouche, sending a message.
    The attorney, who had been trying to get his attention all along, leaned over to deliver a sharp whisper. Valentin stood up, gave a cursory bow to his hosts, and followed the attorney out of the room. They stepped into the pantry, a narrow space that adjoined a large, sunny kitchen. The door swung closed behind them. Valentin settled against one of the sideboards and studied the arrangement of fine china in the cupboards as Delouche drew his thin body up, clenching his hands at his sides.

    "What do you think you're doing?" the attorney hissed. "You don't speak to ladies like that!"
    Valentin eyed him. "Like what?"
    "John Benedict was buried yesterday. They're grieving. You aren't on Basin Street, sir. You can't—"
    "This is a waste of time."
    Delouche cocked his head, stunned at the detective's insolence. He said, "I beg your pardon?"
    "This is a waste of time," Valentin repeated. The attorney opened his mouth to protest. Valentin barged on. "They can tell any story they want, but you know he went out there for a woman. Or maybe it was a man. Or something else. And he was murdered." He shrugged. "That's all there is to this."
    By now Delouche's cheeks were crimson and his lips fairly trembled with anger. "Are you